


Learning the Curve of Your Palm

by thewaymyfoxwas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Fluff, M/M, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaymyfoxwas/pseuds/thewaymyfoxwas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is much more accepting of his own feelings than people give him credit for.<br/>Learning it's ok to express them is still a work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning the Curve of Your Palm

Contrary to popular first impression, Dean Winchester is not at all emotionally closed off. Admittedly, there was a time when any and all emotional turmoil would be swiftly and determinedly dealt with through the expert application of a bottle of Jack, and the nearest girl who accepted a night of fun with a pretty drifter for what it was, and expected no more. But even at his peak of emotional avoidance, Dean always fully understood his own feelings, even if he didn’t want to, even when they made him feel guilty, or weak, even if he chose to ignore them, and these days - now that his signature choices of numbing agent are employed much more sparsely - he is usually perfectly, painfully aware of what’s going on in his head and his heart. This has become particularly apparent when it comes to Cas.

            It had taken them several years, and a seemingly endless cycle of confusion, miscommunication and heartbreak, but they had finally, finally got there. They had finally had ‘The Kiss’, which had started out so tremulous and nervous, and ended as passionate and desperate as anything else they ever did. Dean had even taken the plunge and been the one to initiate ‘The Talk’, both using careful words, and as always, letting lingering looks and slight touches fill in the blanks between sentences. They had allowed themselves a couple of weeks before Dean had followed it up with ‘The Talk With Sam’, mumbling his way through a nervous confession, trying to sound casual while simultaneously impressing how serious this was on his brother, needing him to understand  _so badly_  - only for it to become clear that Sam wasn’t even going to feign surprise and was actually just pleased, and relieved he didn’t have to pretend not to notice anymore. Dean was actually a little disappointed by the anti-climax.

            That had been what Dean had expected to be the ‘hard bit’, and now all that was left was the gradual incorporation of this side of their relationship into all their lives. Bit by bit, Cas moved himself into Dean’s room semi-permanently, and Dean was convinced that nothing much would change outside of it; he had tried to assure Sam of this, and had only got a smile in response. At first, he was quite right. The days went by mostly as they had been doing since Cas returned to the bunker. Dean cooked, Sam looked for cases online, between them they taught Cas any skills he either needed or wanted, things rubbed along easily. But as it turns out, simply acknowledging emotion does not lessen its impact. Falling asleep to the sound of Cas’ gentle breathing every night and waking up with a sturdy arm around his torso every morning, if anything, made his feelings about the whole thing even more intense. It proved harder than expected to act as though sex was the only change in their dynamic when he had a near constant pit of giddy warmth in his stomach over  _something_ : looking across the table at breakfast and knowing exactly how that tremendous bed head was achieved. Ordering burgers at some greasy roadside diner and Cas declaring them to be “not nearly as good as the ones you make" in a tactlessly loud voice, earning them a truly venomous glare from the cook. Stopping at a bar on the way home one night and watching as too many beers get knocked back far too quickly, and anticipating how handsy things would likely get once they were alone. Even moments that left him removed, merely an observer: watching Cas quietly work out how to use the new coffee machine Sam bought for his girly drinks that Dean refuses to order, or scanning the library’s history and lore books, occasionally paper clipping small slips of paper to the pages with corrections. Every tiny, unimportant detail of the day - from that small smile that tugs at his mouth in the morning (the only understandable communication he can usually manage pre-caffeine), to the slow, almost hesitant way his body curls around Dean’s as they fall asleep at night - is all permeated with this deep down reminder that pretending that nothing had really changed didn’t make it true.

            And of course, some days are harder than others. Some days aren’t about bad fast food, forgetting new alcohol tolerance limits, and trying to convince Sam that Star Trek marathons are a truly important part of the human experience and therefore their duty to share with Cas. Occasionally, Cas will wake up with a dark cloud above his head. Days when he can’t manage that morning smile, even after his second cup of coffee, where he can’t focus on whatever movie Dean picks out for them this time, and doesn’t have the energy to devote to translating texts for their records or his daily trip to the Letters gym. Days that, at best, are passed quietly, speaking in soft voices and getting distracted during conversations, at worst include one of the boys finding him hunched over himself, having been pushed over the edge by something innocuous, spilling tears over dead brothers and sisters, past mistakes or phantom pains from his lost wings. As time goes by, these days become fewer and farther between, but Dean knows as well as anyone that some things never really go away completely.

            At first, the boys try to ‘fix’ things for him when the mood hits him. Try to make things better. Force another heart-to-heart even when there is nothing new to say, or distract him with some mundane task that didn’t warrant the enthusiasm they tried to approach it with. It didn’t take them long, however, to realise that really, there was very little to be done on these days beyond just letting Cas be sad for as long as he needed to be. Sam would offer to talk things through, which Cas would usually refuse but always appreciate, and then would leave him to it, continuing the day as usual. But Dean found it difficult to deal with that. He was well aware that Sam’s approach was probably best, but it didn’t sit well with him. Those feelings that refused to be quiet and unobtrusive when Cas was on form were no more cooperative when Cas was struggling. Only instead of making him feel silly and smiley and filled with a bone deep  _want_  whose only direction was  _towards Cas_ , they left him feeling unsettled and antsy, every instinct telling him to do something, but not really knowing what, achingly aware that nothing he said could take away all that hurt. It was not the first time he’d felt that particular brand of helplessness, but it had not gotten any easier with practice. Any desire he felt to wrap around Cas, hold him close and make him feel protected, was pushed down. Cas was not a child, he was ridiculously old former warrior of Heaven, and all it would accomplish would be to make Sam feel awkward and Dean feel even more useless when Cas pulled away, disappearing somewhere deep in the bunkers halls for a few hours.

            This continued for just over two months. That is when Dean started noticing Cas watching couples. It is a testament to how out of sorts he was feeling that he didn’t once make any kind of voyeur joke.

            The first time he noticed, they were in yet another diner, finally catching some grub after a hunt, exhausted, starving and looking fit to drop. Sam was mumbling something about the difficulties of exhuming graves in the heat, and idly wondering how hard it would be to be appropriately stealthy while using an excavator, and where they could possibly get away for a few weeks where there was one hundred per cent no ghosts, guaranteed, but Dean was too busy looking at the man beside Sam to agree with his brother’s conclusion that they had, by this point, earned the right to both a vacation and the use of heavy construction gear. Cas was looking (with at least an attempt at subtlety) at a young couple in the booth across from theirs. Dean glanced over, trying to understand what about them was worthy of attention _. Jesus Christ, don’t let them be ghosts or monsters or demons or anything else that needs ganking, I’m too tired and too hungry and I just want to go home, damn it_  - There was a chance that some left over mojo or instincts or whatever were telling Cas something different, but as far as Dean could see, there was nothing off about them. They were sat on one side of their booth, slouched into the corner, nursing coffees and looking as tired as Dean felt. Early twenties, greasy hair, backpacks on the floor beside them, but decent enough clothes, and they didn’t look ill or underfed. Probably not homeless, or anything to warrant any concern. From the looks of it, just on a road trip, and underestimated the distance to the next motel. The girl was leant into her boyfriend’s side, head resting on his shoulder, struggling to keep her eyes open as the arm wrapped around her tightened slightly. The guy pressed a kiss to her hair line and took another deep swig of coffee. They were over tired and oblivious to the world around them, and utterly, peacefully average. But Cas continued to watch them with a curious expression on his face until the waitress came with their order, and his attention became fully invested in his over-stuffed grilled sandwich.

            A few days later, it happened again. They’d pulled into a gas station on their way back to Lebanon, making the most of the opportunity to get outside. The sun was beating down, and the interior of the car was stifling and smelt increasingly of sweat. Sam had gone inside to pick up what he swore was going to be at least eleven hundred bottles of water from the fridge, and Dean had filled up the tank, more as an excuse to be out there, rather than any pressing need for gas. Cas leaned against the hood of the Impala, cheeks getting increasingly red in the sun, and Dean made a mental note to pick up sunscreen at the store later. He was wearing those ridiculous aviators that he’d found in the last town (which  _are totally douchey and don’t make him look hot at all and I’m only staring because I’m so disgusted by your poor taste, shut up_ ), so Dean hadn't realised at first that his eyes were fixed on a park bench across the street. Another couple sat there, very different to the tired diner couple, their bodies curved towards each other, smiling at nothing, talking quietly, and gently kissing every now and again. They didn't look like the type to engage in such obvious PDA, and he told Cas as much, huffing out a laugh. They weren't exactly horny teenagers making out. They were late thirties, at least, decked out in business suits, top buttons undone and blazers slung over the back of the bench. Professional looking, grown up types. Not the kind of people you expect to get all romantic and kissy in front of a gas station in the middle of the day. “They must be very much in love," was all Cas said in reply, before smiling at Sam’s approaching form, and getting up to help him carry what may well have been the eleven hundred bottles he’d promised.

            This continued for the next few days. Cas seemed overly curious about every couple they’d run into when they went to the store, or the bar. That’s all it ever seemed to be - curiosity. Dean figured that he was viewing them the same way that he’d viewed every other aspect of human behaviour that sparked his interest. His face was the same one he wore the first time Dean convinced him to take a break from God hunting and watch some TV with them. The same one he used to root through Dean’s belongings (which had always been a habit, and unsurprisingly hadn't been kicked just because he lives with them now). Not judging, or above it all, like the other angels. Just curious. It made sense to Dean to think that his curiosity would only continue once he became an official part of the human race himself. He didn't work it out until one afternoon, after they had walked into town together. The sun was still forcing them out of their layers, and Sam had insisted on searching for something more summer friendly, in an attempt to convince Dean that it was perfectly acceptable to wear shorts when the weather made you feel like you were being oven baked in jeans and flannel. Having no interest in rifling through rails of ugly discount clothes, Dean had dragged Cas over to the side of the store, pulling him down to sit beside him on the concrete, backs against the wall, and closed his eyes against the sun, letting it soak into his skin. The warm haze and quiet sounds of other people living their lives lulled him, his mind spacing out into a rare, thoughtless serenity, and by the time he reopened his eyes, he couldn't even be sure if they’d be there ten minutes or an hour. He turned to Cas, struck by a sudden desire to find Sam and convince him to pick out a summer dress later, and go grab some stuff for a barbeque back at the bunker. Maybe call Charlie, Kevin, Garth. It had been a long time since they’d seen Jody, too. Assemble the Avengers and make the most of what could potentially be a very brief respite. He found Cas already turned in his direction, but he wasn't looking at him. He was, naturally, watching another couple, this time walking slowly side by side, window shopping without any apparent destination, hands cupped together, tightening when one pulled the other towards a store front. Dean tried to see them through Cas’ eyes, tried to understand what was so fascinating that, after God-alone-knows how many years of observing humanity, he could still be watching people, watching couples, like he was cataloguing the details. This couple sat with their legs tangled together. This couple walked with their hands in each other’s pockets. This man rested his hand against his wife’s knee. But to Dean, this was all just the sickly sweet behaviour of people he didn't know, in a relationship that would never affect him, and nothing about them struck him as remotely interesting.   

            He watched them as they ambled along the street, searching for the words to simply ask Cas without sounding judgemental, until they rounded the corner and vanished from sight. He turned back to Cas, deciding on the direct approach, and found squinting blue eyes lingering on Dean’s own hand, resting in the ground between them. Realising he’d be caught, Cas’ gaze darted between Dean’s face and his own lap, shifting slightly where he sat, taking on a careful neutral expression.

            And at long, long last, Dean’s penny finally dropped.  

            Before Cas, Dean’s only experience with committed relationships came from his time with Lisa. While their relationship had been far from all bad, Dean had known all too well that he was living in a world he didn't belong to. Left to his own devices for too long, he ended up dwelling on things like his baby brother being trapped in Hell, his surrogate father hunting monsters by himself, his best friend dealing with who knows what as new Sheriff in Heaven. Things that make it harder to fit in around the suburbs, and easier to dive head first into nightmares and booze.  So he had followed Lisa’s lead in pretty much all things. She had let him wallow in his grief for a few weeks with saint-like patience, and then slowly began making suggestions. Picking up Ben from soccer practice so she didn’t have to rush there. Taking up a nice, simple construction job, nothing too taxing, but would keep his mind and body busy. Getting a hold of a new set of wheels when he couldn’t bear to slide into the Impala, teaching Ben how to fix it up. And when it came to romance, his experience gave him expert knowledge on seducing someone, showing them a good time for however long they got together, and trying to leave with no regrets on either end when he inevitably moved on. He didn't know the first damn thing about being somebody’s boyfriend. So when she suggested they make Fridays “date night", he had agreed, and they started going either where she wanted, or, on his turns to choose, wherever seemed like the right kind of place. Restaurants, movie theatres, the freaking ballet. When out with her friends, he would reciprocate whatever affection she showed him, carefully treading the balance between seeming clingy or cold. He hadn’t wanted to show her up. She had done so much for him, the least he could do is make the girls she worked with whisper about how lucky she was to have him, even if he knew the truth.

            Dean had never been the more experienced party when it wasn't simply about sex. He’d never had a long term partner that needed him to be as, well… responsible for their relationship as they were. That wasn't to say he wasn't trying with Cas - he was. He was trying so hard to make this work. He had known Cas would need him when it came to everyday human bullshit he never had to think about before. He knew he’d need his support to get through the guilt and the loss and the million other feelings his fall had forced on him. Of course, he knew Cas would need some guidance when it came to sex - the look of pure terror when Dean had introduced him to Chastity was still etched into his mind.  _Genius move, that had been, Winchester_. He’d been fully prepared to go as slowly as Cas had felt comfortable with, take it in stages. There was still a lot they hadn't worked up to yet, and Dean had been careful to make sure Cas knew he was ok with that, they went along at their own natural pace, and it had been much less nerve wracking than he had feared it would be.

            And that was the point, really. This thing between them had been brewing for so long; it was all so obvious and natural, that, in many ways, and despite everything Dean had expected, it was easy. Their  _lives_  weren't easy, Dean doubted they ever would be - there had been less hunting, of late, but it was still there, and it only takes one hunt to finish you off, or take away someone you love. Sam’s health had been a worry, at first, but he had, slowly, healed, although Dean hadn't stopped his internal panic attack until weeks after Sam had announced he was feeling better. Cas had what Dean just referred to as ‘issues’ in his head, because no word could ever really capture the enormity of all that had happened. And Dean was still Dean; he’ll always have his own special brand of issues to deal with. But the change between he and Cas was smooth, simple. It felt right, and even the strangeness of actually getting to do the things he had spent years trying not to daydream about had worn off within a few weeks. For once in his life, what Dean wanted was syncing up with his reality, and even if thinking about the future still made him feel fluttery and nervous, he was getting more and more confident that, God willing (so to speak), Cas was going to be a part of it. Dean knew perfectly well how he felt, and the ease of their progression from friends to ‘Together’ was actually starting to make him believe they were going to be allowed to have this.

            However self-aware Dean may be, though, what tended to leave people with the idea that he was somehow emotionally stunted, was that he had yet to master the art of  _expressing_. He had spent many years trying to harden himself, to be sturdy, the rock to build a house on. When he failed, even when he could barely stand under the weight of his own heart, and his legs were bound to give out under him at any moment, he put his energy into faking it. His dad needed a soldier. Sammy needed a protector. The world needed a defender. He refused to fail them because he was too busy crying over his own hurt feelings. He was getting better, he knew this. These days, he could wrap his arms around someone he loved without it having to mean “I thought you were dead", or even, “you were dead". Or even more bizarrely, " _I_  was dead". He could muddle his way through one of those capital T ‘Talks’, could even instigate one before somebody broke down in tears or threw a punch - it still took all his self-control, but he could do it. It was the everyday stuff, the stuff that should have come as naturally as the feelings that motivated them. Easy sincerity, that was Sam’s department; and for all the mockery Sam had taken for being a big girl, truth was, as Dean saw the uncertainty in Cas’ eyes in that moment, he wished - not for the first time - that he was more like his baby brother.

            Because Cas may have adjusted to much of humanity a lot more smoothly than anyone had expected, but what was between them was entirely new territory. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but Dean remembered how Cas was when he first became a part of their lives. He stood too close, stared to hard, spoke with too much blunt intensity. He had spent the majority of their friendship learning the social cues humans have drummed into them from childhood. Now, suddenly, the game had changed, and it hadn’t even occurred to Dean that no one had ever explained the rules. And whatever Cas didn't learn from the Winchesters, he picked up through observation - of course he had been staring at couples like he was conducting a study. He was. Dean felt an unpleasant weight settle in his chest at the thought of Cas watching other people kiss, embrace, show their love regardless of where they were, and wondering why he and Dean were only ever like that behind closed doors. Why to the casual observer, they continued to act like ‘just close friends’. Why the only person who would ever guess the difference was Sam, who knew Dean well enough to see the change in him; the warmth in his voice when he talked about Cas, the contentment in his eyes, the hum under his skin when they were close to each other.

            Sam could see how far gone Dean was. He shot them one of those smug, knowing grins way too often for Dean to think otherwise. But could anybody else see it? Would Charlie see it when she dropped in at the bunker next? Would Bobby have seen it, if he was still around for them to make their way back to his doorstep again?

…Did  _Cas_  see it?

            He had spent so damn long trying to discipline his own heart, hiding so much of himself away from public view, from judgement or rejection. It was unclear when it had gone from a choice to an instinct. As he sat there, leaning against a sun baked wall staring at Cas’ increasingly tense expression, he felt all those old, reliable worries worm their way through the pleasant, easy haze of the afternoon. His brain helpfully reminding him of every imagined scenario where his attempts to be affectionate become annoying, smothering, and his willingness to be open and vulnerable is considered a weakness, and he is cast aside.

            But this was Cas. Cas, who had come to Earth in the company of angels who had laughed at the simpering, pathetic mud monkeys, and had been distressed when faced with Dean’s pain.

Who had been taught to consider Lucifer’s vessel as something disgusting, an abomination,  _the boy with the demon blood_ , and had chosen to see  _Sam_  instead.

Who’d kept a silent, unwavering vigil over Dean’s bedside as he had wept into scratchy hospital sheets, and years later, would listen to nightly prayers that fell anywhere between a soft sadness to an almost hysterical desperation. Cas had seen him at all variations of his worst, and had only ever expressed any loss of respect for him when Dean planned to give up the fight entirely. The only time Cas ever judged him with any kind of disappointment was because he refused to be as strong as Cas _knew_  he was, even after everything he had seen.

            So Dean, just for a moment, let himself imagine what would happen if he didn't let those old fears hold him back.

            He imagines the feel of the soft, unmarred skin of Cas’ hand rubbing against the calloused palm of his own, their fingers locking and squeezing gently.

            Walking with Cas’ arm hooked around his own, keeping their sides flush against each other, shoulders bumping slightly with each step. Chastely kissing him goodbye, letting the brief press of lips say everything that they both already know, but enjoy being reminded of.

            Feeling a forehead drop against his shoulder blade while he’s making breakfast, because _it’s early and the light is so **needlessly**  bright and Sam is so infuriatingly  **perky** in the mornings,_ and have him grumble into his t-shirt until somebody hands him a coffee. Going to him on the thankfully much less common occasion when his bad days reduce him to tears, hauling him onto his lap, running firm fingers down his spine to soothe the ache when his body forgets it isn’t actually supporting any extra limbs anymore.

            Leaning into Cas’ side to rest his head on a surprisingly broad shoulder as they watch TV with Sam at night, and thinking nothing of it when he feels blunt fingernails start to rake softly through his hair. He’d probably fall asleep like that and miss the big reveal about Doctor Sexy’s long lost twin brother…

            And throughout all of this, he imagines himself cackling at Sam’s anguished cries of “oh come on guys, seriously, I’m right here, stop being gross, my eyes are burning and I swear I will  ** _be violently sick on both of you if you don’t quit it_** ”, and responding by being even more soppy and obnoxious, because he’s happy and Cas is happy and Sam is happy, too, really, and _I love this stupidly gorgeous, stupidly brave, stupidly awesome dude so much that it’s turned me into **that guy** , I don’t even care, and everybody can see how gross we are…_

            Sam stood outside the open store front, beckoning them over, a shit eating grin stretched across his face, as he pulled three pairs of the most horrendous Hawaiian print shorts in existence out of a plastic bag.

            The warm, pleased smile he gives them at the sight of their loosely laced fingers is the only thing that saves from the punch in the face he deserves.


End file.
